The Spiritual Body of a Poem

Keep writing…
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When i have a writer’s block there is only one way to get over it. Work. I just keep writing. The best results always come right off the top of my head. Uncontrived and vivid. Spontaneously combusted from a mind on fire and in love with life.
Or, unsatisfied, hating your life and having a desire to change it.
It is the reason we write, to express sincere emotions. This is what others, our readers, relate to the best.
This is a matter of the spirit.
The spirit of love. The spirit of pain.
In angst or agony, within a deeper understanding of the self, the emotional release of description distracts us somewhat as we work through to a better understanding of self and others. To find the right words and put them in sentences and paragraphs allows us to order the reeling mind a bit and find a semblance of order amid the chaos. All we write is something to be left behind. We can more easily move on then in a spirit of resolution.
To leave a record of how we felt and some of all we have learned gives us a trace of our own humanity and the feeling we may help another.
Even if it is merely for them to say to themselves…me too.
If i am blue you recognize this.
Fired up and red hot with a desire or some righteous anger, others relate. This knowledge can sate some of our edginess and like music, assist to soothe the savage beast that lurks and lingers in each and every person. It is personal, these words, and worth the sharing if we dare to be honest enough to let others inside those secret places so many hide away and keep private.
It makes me yours and you mine and i know i can find a little time to tell you this and so much more.
Even if i cannot speak it, maybe i can wtite it down.
And yes, you can too.
So find a nook, a corner to call your own and share your inner world with us. We are waiting to hear from you when you come from the secret space within this true dwelling of your innermost heart.

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And should it never rhyme at all. So be it. It is spiritual. It is the poetry of the soul.

Cold
My hands are stiffening
The effort extreme
The car is broken down
As the temperatures plummet
Again tonight, below zero
Ties broken earlier this evening
Toes frozen, tho’ not frostbitten
Out of the snow banks recede
It is that bane same belt
Broken again far from home
And no one is answering a phone
Thank God for this fur coat
The politically incorrect one
My son’s house is almost…
Within walking distance
Shall i call 911…soon enough
I fear not ever to freeze to death
I am told it is a peaceful way
Just go to sleep and don’t awaken
And even though i have a home
Now… i shall sit and write this
It is too far to there, or, anyplace
Where any of my friends reside
My sister’s freshly laundered towels
Serve well, blankets this fridgid eve
To know even without this cold
Killer weather, lives can be in peril
At any given moment
Life is precious…and oh so fragile
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Wuji Seshat

62

To write poetry is
To create philosophical memory
To adjust the commentaries

Of all souls, to just one voice
To strip the inequalities
Of existence, of their mass
To write poetry is
To erase the written

Transforming what we have read
Making alphabets contemporary
Fluid, mystical

To write poetry is not just art
It’s neurological reprogramming
A quantum gesture to
The nature of beauty
And Meaning itself

To write poetry is
To return to an absence of meaning
The meddlesome mind forgets

The natural order of nature
To reduce layers of narrative
And return to a total peace
And a grand vision of the universe
As a talking thing, exchanging energy

In a physics of existence
To write poetry is to love the unwritten
Endings that all concur

To identify with the sudden
Rupture of beginnings
From which all thought originates
To write poetry is thus
The silence in between…

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